seal thy fate (the piece is moved)
by TenTenD
Summary: The realm has had peace for a brief winter and a full-blow summer. Yet danger lurks in the dark, the winds grown harsh and the weather is cooled. Not all is well in the Targaryen kingdom. Sequel to 'the game stays the same'.
1. i

Sansa sits by the window with her sewing materials now that Septa Mordane has left her for a short while. Jeyne talks about something of little consequence, and Sansa looks outside, down where the men are training. Cheeks aglow she watches the spar. Her younger sister's rude snickers interrupt her. Sana's head whirls around and she throws a glare to young Arya. "What has you so amused?" Her rude tone, one that she does not dare use with anyone but Arya, quietens Jeyne.

"At least I can speak around him without stuttering," Arya taunts and then bolts out of the room without so much as a glance backwards. That is good, for Sansa looks to be in a rage at her sister's words.

What makes it all worse is that Arya is not wrong on this. Sansa sighs and looks once more outside. Her eyes are drawn to Willas Tyrell as they often are. "Oh, Jeyne, I wish he would notice me." It all started innocently enough, Sansa recounts. Willas came from the South to squire at Winterfell, and after being knighted he chose to stay on awhile longer. He is kind and gallant and he always seems to have a smile for Ned Stark's daughters. And it is exactly that to bother Sansa. Willas makes no difference between herself and Arya or Jeyne. Indeed it seems that in his eyes all three are children still. "I am almost a woman grown, Jeyne. Why will he not look at me?"

"I am sure he does," Jeyne tells her softly, giggling. "But you know Willas, he is nothing if not proper. Perhaps you ought to speak to your grandfather about this." How silly a thought! And tell her grandfather what exactly? That she wishes her father's former squire would give her more than a passing smile? "Do not fret, Sansa. Better yet, tell me again, is the King really coming here?"

"Aye, and he brings with him my aunt, Queen Lyanna, and Jon will he here too." Sansa smiles knowingly at Jeyne. "Rhaegon and Aeron, of course, will be here as well, and the Kingsguard, and half the court, if father is right in his predictions." The thought of seeing her aunt again bring Sansa much joy. If there is anyone who could help her, it is Lyanna Targaryen for sure. "I'm so excited."

"Me too!" Jeyne agreed. "Just think, all the ladies and lords, the knights and the feast! I am still in awe. And we can finally meet little Princess Alysanna." The last of her aunbt's brood, Alysanna Targaryen is younger than even Arya, of an age with Bran. Sansa just hopes she will be as demure as her mother, else she thinks she may cry. Just the chance of Arya finding an accomplice for her heinous behaviour leaves Sansa with a bad aftertaste in her mouth.

"I'm sure she is lovely," Sansa agrees, but her mind has taken her elsewhere. Aunt Lyanna has told her the last time she visited that Sansa needs only name her wish and she, as Queen, will see it done. Little Sansa prays that those words hold true, for she does not think she'll ever find a man like Willas Tyrell were she looks all over the realm. Can they not hurry, though?

Septa Mordane returns, her expression as sullen as ever. It takes her but a beat to notice the youngest Stark girl had left once more. "Where is Arya? Is she hiding again?"

"She left not a long while ago," Sansa explains, setting her hands in her lap. "I rather think she has gone to the stables again." Her little sister has an unnatural love for horses.

Jeyne leans over and whispers only for Sansa's ears when the Septa rushes out the door, "It is after all the place for horses, the stable." And the two laugh heartily.

With her Tully looks, Sansa is nothing if not pretty. She has her mother's auburn hair and those incredibly blue eyes, wide and clear, her frame dainty but tall and regal. In contrast, Arya is small, her hair dark, her eyes the colour of an angered sky. The youngest of Ned's daughters has the face of a horse, if Sansa may say so herself. "I do not know who she resembles. I fear someone may have stolen my sister and replaced."

Despite her words, Sansa is fond of her siblings, even of Arya. Aye, they fight and call one another names and pull each other's hair, but they are sisters. Relaxing, Sansa leans against her seat. There is much excitement for the upcoming visit of the King and Queen. Sansa knows, from uncle Benjen's stories, that the Starks are closely bonded. Why she remembers that even uncle Bradon, father's older brother, will be coming. This uncle she does not know so well. The Master of Moat Cailin, they call him. He is a widower since the last winters, which was a few years back, and since the death of his wife, he has kept to himself.

Rob storm in the room, scaring the two young girls. He grins boyishly at them, but his attention is more upon Sansa. "You'll never believe what we've found, sister. Come see!" He looks at Jeyne then. "You father is looking for you, Jeyne. He said to let you know if I saw you."

Following Robb, Sansa tries not to trip of the hem of her skirts when she accidentally steps upon them. Luckily for her, balance has always been one of her attributes. As it turns out, what Robb has found is a litter of direwolves. Small, gray creatures, all but one which is in the hands of her father. "There are two females and three males."

"Where is their mother?" Sans asks, worried all of a sudden. Clearly they are but pups, they need a mother.

"Injured," comes her reply from father. Eddard looks to the wolf in his arms, scrawny and white.

"Oh, father! Do save her. Please! Please!" Sansa has never taken the suffering of beasts well. "Can master Luwin not save her?" And Ned Stark having never been able to deny anything to his daughter slowly nods his head. Sansa gives him a brilliant smile. "Thank you, father!"


	2. ii

Rhaenys Dayne sets down her book and wrinkles her nose at Aegon. They are names after queen and kings of Westeros, she and her brother, for all they are not of royal blood. Her mother had often said it is because one must honour their heroes. Rhaenys on the other hand wonder how it is that she looks not one bit like her father while Aegon is the man's very image. Her father says it is the King that had named her. But why would Rhaegar Targaryen bestow the name of a queen to a child not his own. Rhaenys has heard the whispers.

She supposes she ought to let go of her anger now. Arthur Dayne has not ever, not once, shown in any way that he makes difference between his daughter and his son. But still, it bothers Rhaenys. What if she is indeed the daughter of the King? What if those whispers are the truth and not what all these people have been telling her all her life?

The sound of steps distracts her. Looking over her shoulder Rhaenys sees her mother's brother entering. Oberyn Martell barely has time to step over the threshold before Aegon lunges for him. Picking his nephew up, Oberyn spins him round and round. Aegon laughs and Rhaenys grimaces. She only wishes she could read her book in peace. Well, relative peace, for it only goes this far. Dorne is a noisy place and she almost wishes she were somewhere else. "Uncle Oberyn," she greets the man as she lands a kiss on her rosy cheeks. "We were wondering when you'd appear."

"Have you seen mother?" Aegon asks, innocent like. Her little brother does not know the state their mother is in. Rhaenys would tell him, but even she is not supposed to know. It was by chance that she has overheard the Maester's diagnosis.

Oberyn seems struck by the question. Rhaenys' suspicions are confirmed when he picks her brother up and sets him on his knee much like father does when the news he wants to share with them is not the most pleasant. "Aye, I've seen her."

"Is she better then? Father says we can see her when she's better. And you visited her, so she must be better." Rhaenys hold back a snort. How foolish her brother can be. But at least he still has his hopes. Aegon's eyes meet hers and he bites his lip, his face pleading. "Tell him, Rhaenys. It is so. Father promised."

"Father has said so," she validates, her hands shake slightly and she hides them in the folds of her dress, hoping to mask her sudden lack of courage. The thought of her mother being ill, beyond hope tears at her. She wants to ask her for the truth. She wants to know. "Do you think, perhaps, we could see her now? For a few moment only?" But her uncle's eyes tell her differently, even as he makes a show of considering her request.

"That is a question best put to your father, my sweet." His gentle tone does nothing for the nerves that twist within Rhaenys. Father has hardly left mother's room.

Aegon pouts, his face taking a sullen cast. Whining will not help them. Rhaenys send the boy a look. "Then we shall do so. Aegon, I do believe you must go to your lessons now." In mother's absence it falls to Rhaenys to steer her brother towards his tasks. Aegon complains but his feet move so his sister does nothing to quieten him. Let him complain if he so wishes. It is only after he has left that she once more looks to her uncle. "At least allow us to say our goodbyes."

"Your mother is still of this world, girl," Oberyn retorts. His face, similar in so many ways to hers, clouds over. "Those Maesters don't know what they speak of." Empty words. "Elia is a strong woman, she'll pull through, even if your father and I have to help her every step. Have no doubt, little one, you shan't lose your mother." Oberyn catches the disbelief and purses his lips. "She needs you to believe in her, Rhaenys."

Brushing a stray lock behind her ear, Rhaenys nods her head slowly. Uncle Oberyn cannot be fought with. He has wit enough to slay her every argument if he is so inclined. But Rhaenys can feel it deep inside her, the sense that something is not quite right. There is a storm approaching and she fears this time the sand will swallow them alive. The girls slides her feet off the settee. By habit her hands reach out for the book. She holds it up and pretends to read the letters as her uncle stares off into the empty nothingness. It is all that he can do to assuage the pain. Rhaenys hides behind her ink-splattered pages, he behind the emptiness. And father, well, father simply holds onto mother and perhaps hopes it will be enough to keep her with them. Mayhap it might do.

Mother, Rhaenys wonders if she will ever be able to think of Elia Martell without that stab of pain. It is not entirely her fault. "Uncle, do you think father might takes us to the tourney when mother gets better?" Travelling unsettles Elia, it is not often that they leave Dorne. Although Rhaenys dearly wishes they would. She wants to see more than the gardens grown from sand. She wants to see the snow they say covers the whole of the North. She wants to see the dragon skulls and the Iron Throne. But her mother is ever sick and unable to move for more than a few hours at a time.

It started shortly after Aegon was born. The Maester said she would not grow heavy again. A sort of melancholy had stolen over her mother at that point. Rhaenys cannot understand why, for father's attention never abated from her, nor does it now. But Elia Martell is _'unbowed, unbent, unbroken'. _Rhaenys admired her mother's strength of character and she hates it in equal measure. It tears apart at what little she thought she had left.

"I'm certain he will," Oberyn replies to her earlier question. "You might be crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty by the Prince."

"Which one?" Rhaenys asks cheekily, waiting for her uncle's amusement to surface.

True to form, Oberyn chuckles. "The eldest may take his chance in a tourney. But if your tastes run to the younger ones," the rest is left to silence.

Befitting a Targaryen, Rhaenys thinks, that she should form an affection for someone who might be her brother. "They say he looks like his mother."

"Aye, Jon Targaryen looks more wolf on the surface. But don't be fooled, he is a dragon." Oberyn falls back against his seat.


	3. iii

Once again little Roslin is crying over something their father has said. Walder Frey is not the gentlest of men, if anything he lacks any gentleness when it comes to his very many children. "Snivelling wench! Quit your weeping and go be of some use." His curses only disturb Roslin farther. But these are the only words Walder Frey has for his daughters. To him all these women are useless. "When you've brought something to this family you may take affront!"

Grabbing his sister around the waist, Olyvar pulls her away as their older brothers laugh. Stroking her back gently, he whispers something in her ear to quieten her sobs. "There, there, Roslin. Don't take the words to heart. Father is angry just now." Walder Frey is a very bitter man, angry all the time, perhaps at the Gods. It would not surprise Olyvar should his father declare war upon the divine for not handing to him all that the man thinks he deserves. Even so, Roslin is an innocent. She has no knowledge of the many insults the patriarch of House Frey thinks are thrown his way. "Wait a few hours and you'll see his disposition shall improve. You may ask him then what you will."

The latest subject to bring a frown upon Walder Frey's face is the news that the oldest of the King's sons will soon be finding a bride. Olyvar is actually older than the Prince Jon and still unmarried, and the King's father himself married when he was past his first score of years. The young man very much doubts that the Prince is indeed searching for a wife. Walder Frey worries that his daughters will be overlooked in favour of other houses. The Tyrells have an exceptionally beautiful girl according to rumour, House Stark boasts a couple of daughters, House Dayne has Rhaenys whom they say the king himself named after Aegon's the Conqueror's beloved. There is House Lannister, of course, with pretty middle-branch maidens to offer, and Stannis Baratheon has a daughter, but perhaps that one shan't be anyone's pick, for half here face is covered in dead skin the stories say. Looking at Roslin, Olyvar cannot think of a man who would turn her affections away. She is pretty, the prettiest of their father's daughters. She and Tyta are part of a distinct few of the family who may be called good-looking. However his sister does not wish to marry into the Royal family if she can help it.

"I do not want to do it," Roslin whined softly, sounding heartbroken. Olyvar shook his head but bade her to continue. "I shan't marry unless it is Edmure that asks."

"Gods, Roslin!" Olyvar chuckles. His eyes roll heavenwards. "I still do not understand why you would pin your hopes on the Fish! Dragons are better suited to provide for you." In this he jokes, Roslin slaps his arm but laughs along. "Better that you do as father says. Go to Winterfell, but instead of charming the fabled Prince, smile your way into his uncle's heart. It is as simple as that Roslin."

"Those maidens, they all go there in hopes that the Prince will notice them. Nobody will think me any different." It must be Roslin's worst nightmare to have Edmure Tully thinking her a power-hungry shrew. Just the way her voice contorts at the thought, growing red. "What will he think of me then?" She looks like she might cry again.

Younger sisters and their woes. Olyvar thinks that when he does marry he will spend more time in the Sept should his wife give him daughters aplenty. Just looking at Rosling he can feel the worry rising. As a father it would fall to him to protect his daughters. By which Olyvar means that he will give them to the Faith before they realise their interest in men. "He will think that you are a lovely girl and he will count himself lucky for having your heart." Which Olyvar does not know to be strictly true. If a girl ever tried to latch herself onto him, the young Frey is pretty sure he will run for the Wall as fast as he can. They bring only trouble, after all.

"Do you think Elenei Baratheon will also be there?" Roslin's voice is but a soft whisper now.

Elenei Baratheon, the daughter of old, dead Robert Baratheon. A babe when her father lost his head, they say she grows lovelier by the day. "And if she is? Elenei Baratheon is a child, Ros. You needn't fear her."

"Oh, Oly! 'Tis not her I fear. Do you not know her mother follows her as a shadow? She scares me." Roslin bites her lower lip. "There is a look in her eyes whenever anyone speaks to or of her daughter."

Not untrue that. Cersei Lannister-Baratheon can scare anyone if she so pleases, and she most certainly pleases just that when her daughter is involved. Elenei may be growing without a paternal figure, but that might be just as well, for what father could that monster have made her? Olyvar shudders at the thought of Robert Baratheon and his deeds. Alas her mother is a true lioness, and her fangs sink into any man that dares look wrong at her daughter. Come to think of it the girl herself is as much a threat as her mother.

After all, is it not that Cersei Lannister hopes that one of the Princes will notice her daughter? Any House really hopes that one of Rhaegar's sons will pick a daughter of theirs. But the King seems in no hurry, nor does the Queen, for all that she is gracious to all lady 'this' and lady 'that'. "You worry over naught. She guards her child and you cannot deny that Elenei, sweet as she is, incurs the wrath of many for her father's actions." Which is unfair, Olyvar points out quietly at the scowl on Roslin's lips. "I hardly think she'll set her eyes on your Trout, sister."

Unconvinced, Roslin huffs and walks ahead of her brother. "His name is Edmure Tully," she calls back childishly.

"Tully," Olyvar says, a small smirk on his face, "trout. Same difference, sister mine." Does the silly girl hope to become a mermaid by marrying the fish? Olyvar remembers that at some point or another, this was one of Roslin's fantasies. One of her many fantasies. Like any other girl she had dreams in her hair, countless and improbable, in the colour of comfort. By the time she finds out they are only that, dreams, it will be too late to soften the disappointment. Olyvar does not tell her that. He allows his sister to dream of her Lord Tully some more and says not once that the man will likely think her a child and not look twice her way.


	4. iv

_But Elenei would not to so easily dictated to. The wind could howl all it pleased with her mother's ire and the seas could swirl and spew and blacken with her father's anger, she would not be bowed. Holding her head up high, the young daughter of the summer breeze and sweet waves swam from her father's halls once more to the shore._

_As they had planned, Durran awaited her on the steep rock, looking far into the horizon. Young and strong was he, Durran Godsgrief, imposing with the heavy sword at his hip. And yet upon glancing to fair Elenei the blue depths of his eyes lost their frost and warmed. For to see Elenei was to love her. Daughter of the gods, perfect in every way, she had stolen more than the human's heart with her smiles._

_In their grief the gods decided that he was to be punished. And so every castle Durran made by the sea that had created his Elenei would fall with the sun. The King of the Sea called to his horses, demonic beings born of the foam and seaweed, and they rode one and one until they touched the rock, until they jumped over jagged edges and onto freshly lain stone. Hooves beat upon the blocks, fissuring and cracking the work of a hundred days. And each time Durran's castles fell. _

_In the ruins Elenei held him close to her, weeping her despair, steeling her heart and further defying those who'd breathed life into her. And each time Durran swore he would build a bigger castle, one that could withstand the storm, one that not even the gods with all their power could break into pieces. Fed by his own fury, he bellowed his plans to the heaven, issuing a challenge that could not be ignored._

_"Should my seventh castle fall under your attack, I shall give back your daughter. But if my castle holds, Elenei remains with me!" So said he onto the gods that watched him with contempt. Elenei pledged herself to her husband's wishes, she would follow his oath._

_Thinking they had won, the parents of fair Elenei waited for the seventh castle of Durran to be raised. But the man had learned from his past experiences. He would not meet another storm unprepared. So it came to pass that Durran left his lady wife in search of a power that rivalled the gods and also to find a man capable of outwitting the divine._

_Seven long years he wandered the earth, slaying creatures of darkness and bringing light to people who had never thought they would see it. Until on the seventh day of the seventh month of the seventh year he came upon the hut of an old witch. _

_"I know what you search for, Storm King," she told him. "And if you lend me hand in my time of need, I shall repay you in kind. There is someone, aye; someone who not even the gods can match in his craft."_

_"Ask and I shall provide what it is you need," Durran made her the promise. It seemed that luck had finally found him. Victory close at hand, the human lover of Elenei sat upon the hard ground and listened to the hag._

Aeron's voice cracks slightly as he reads. Rhaegon sits on the settee next to his brother and listens intently to the legend of Durran and Elenei. There are times when he regrets not having sight, but this is not one of them. There is a sort of comfort to be found in the presence of his siblings.

"I like this story so much," Alysanna whispers from his left, her voice soft as to not interrupt Aeron. Her arm touches her brothers and she is quiet after.

Rhaegon breathes in at the contact. Having been born without the blessing of sight his other senses are, perhaps, more developed that one would have thought. For instance he knows that his sister wears a dress with circular patterns as his fingers brush the brocade and the sewn shapes. He can also tell that she's had lemon cakes again. There is the faint scent of lemons coming from her side. And then there is the warmth of her hand against his.

Jon had chosen to ride with father which leaves the rest of them with mother. Lyanna sits next to her only daughter, her longer limbs making it possible for her hand to rest on his shoulder. Rhaegon relishes in her touch. His mother understands him like no one else. The young Prince supposes it is to be expected, for she gave them all life. If she does not understand them, then who would? He can hear her humming her approval at Aeron's skill, and Rhaegon smiles. Aeron does not find much pleasure in reading, but he does it anyway. He reads because he knows that Rhaegon does love the tales.

As children, Rhaegon remembers that cruel whispers made him sad. He would often hide away in his rooms and weep over what came from the mouth of others. At that time he cursed being born with this flaw. Aeron had been the one to find him, and upon extracting from him the reason of his distressed he'd done something which had then baffled Rhaegon. Quite seriously he had grasped his brother's hand and said to him, "Symeon Star-Eyes had jewels to replace the eyes he lost. But you don't need those. You have something better. Me! I'll be your eyes."

And as he had promised all those years past, Aeron sees for both Rhaegon and himself. Only in dreams does Rhaegon ever see the shapes of the world surrounding him. When he flies over the hills and valleys, when he touches the water with thin wings; then he can see. That is the strangest thing is that he flies always in the shape of a dragon, never as his human self. But these visions he keeps to himself.

"He is really good," Lyanna praises her son who continues reading. "Are you enjoying this, Rhaegon?" There must be a special place for her blind son in her heart, for Lyanna is especially careful of him.

"Very much, mother." And Rhaegon loves her back just as much. It is for this reason that he is shy of speaking to her or father about his dreams. He has already burdened them with his blindness. Should be provoke them further pain with promises of madness? Nay, the Prince will not do so. His secret he will carry himself. Nobody but he can know.

"I'm glad." He hears the words as they leave his mother's lips and Rhaegon smiles returning his attention to the story, waiting for Durran to come upon Brandon Stark, the one whom they call the Builder.

Just now, Rhaegon is glad they are heading North.

* * *

**_A/N: I've been thinking of starting a small piece dedicated to the legends circulating around Westeros (and not only). What do you think? Would you be interested in reading something like that?_**


	5. v

The swords clash in an elegant, old dance know so well to warriors. Metal slides against metal, the screech tears through the gathering. So similar it is to the wail of beasts that people whisper of dragons flying back upon the shores of Westeros. The ghosts of old have come to dance and once more wings beat against the wind, only this time they look human to the eye. But there are dragons of that there is no doubt. Again the steel bodies meet driven by powerful thrusts.

Jon evades a potentially damaging hit from his opponent, daring a smile upon taking in the confusion on the other's face. He dives in, hoping tat his advantage will hold. He can almost taste the victory. The young Prince makes for the middle and here lies his mistake.

Having prepared for this outcome, Jaime swings his sword full force, catching the Jon's side. "Do not celebrate your victory before you have it before your eyes, boy." He knocks Jon's head for good-measure. "I show you leniency where other would beat you bloody."

Ser Jaime Lannister is mocking him, of that much Jon is sure. "I was so close." It is not a complaint, rather a utterance of disappointment. Besides he's already full of bruises. The future head of House Lannister takes serious his duty of training him.

"Alas, not close enough," the blond snaps. Yet his face smiles, that grin which irritates others so. The same grin which has maidens half his age melting. "Have I the right of it, Your Majesty?" This question is posed to the King who stands in the crowd, a careful observer.

Rhaegar Targaryen is the kind of father who demands that his children be the best they can be. Of course it is done with a parentally fondness that one cannot help but bask in. Jon waits to hear his father's answer, for this approval he needs to have. If in the eyes of his father his standing is low, so it is in the eyes of his King. While the first hurts in an almost physical manner, the second speaks also of his image to the masses. Jon hopes that he has given his father reasons to be proud in this.

"Aye, you do indeed," the King speaks and the whole world is drowned out by the sound of his voice. The wind itself stops howling, but a moment, yet enough for his words to be heard by all. Breaking from the other people he steps forward. Rhaegar's hand finds Jon's shoulder as the two men share a look. Turning to his son, Rhaegar's hold tightens. "You have done well." His voice does not tremble, nor do his eyes shine with unshed tears, but there is a certain pride in his face. "My son."

Breath catching in his throat, Jon's eyes widen. "Many thanks, Your Highness." Seldom does he call his father by anything but title in public. It is the way of royalty. "Father." This he whispers for Rhaegar's ears only and he is rewarded by a slight smile. Feeling rather like a wee boy again, Jon wishes to be rid of the spectators.

The ornate cane his father uses for support touches his leg gently. "Again." It comes out an order. Jon is ready for it and just nods his consent to Jaime who has picked up his sword again. "This time do not allow yourself to be distracted." With those words the King retakes his place and waits for another attempt of his son to improve his skills. "You may now begin."

Jon knows it is a constant source of frustration for his father that he may not train his son himself. It is a story they seldom tell in his presence, but Jon has heard it many times by now. The King was in a battle long ago, back when Jon himself was but a boy, and in this war they call Robert's Rebellion he had his leg injured. They say that Robert's hammer nearly took it off. Jon hurriedly glances to the King. For as long as he could remember, Jon has always belied his father indestructible. Who could bring down such a giant?

There are darker words still. Some speak of a grievous wound that Robert gave to his mother. Jon does not speak of that with either of his parents. It is but a whisper in truth, as if the speakers fear for their tongue should they broach the subject in brad daylight. Whichever way that may be Jon has long since closed his ears to those words. His favourite are by far those rumours that claim he has a sister in Dorne and that she was mothered by the Princess of Dorne herself. Laughable it is that they should think so when they themselves see the love the king bears the Queen.

Other men might cheat, they might seek their pleasure in beds other than their own, but not the King. Nay, Rhaegar Targaryen is clearly enchanted with Lyanna. Jon often finds their displays of affection, innocent as they seem to be, nauseating, but in that way all children do when it comes to their parents. He indulgently turns his eyes away when such a tender moment occurs and hopes to the Gods they will be done soon. There is only so much a boy his age can take.

"You let your thought distract you," Jaime warns, forcing Jon to back a few steps. "It is dangerous, my Prince. Should I be your enemy for real such an occurrence would result in your death." Once more he lunges for Jon. "Keep your wits about you if you do not wish to find yourself impaled."

"I am not so easily vanquished," Jon boasts jokingly after he has dodged Jaime. He tries a manoeuvre of his own. The sword barely touches the other man. But Jon is determined not to give up. This time he shall not lose to Jaime.

"Pray the Gods help you now, Ser Jaime." It is Rhaegar to voice the words. Jon does not doubt that his father has noticed the impish gleam that has stolen over his eyes. As well he should, Jon decides, for he has raised him from boy to man.

His moment of glory becomes a certainty after he lands two rapid blows against the opponent's chest. Jaime stumbles back, taken by surprise. Jon does not hesitate to solidify his position as victor by knocking Jaime over. The blond falls and the sword comes to his neck. "Yield," Jon commands, assuming a voice close to Rhaegar's own.

"I yield." Jaime laughs at the look of triumph on Jon's face. "Careful that you don't mistake luck for skill, else you'll find defeat easier to taste than victory." And strangely enough the words are meant in an almost fatherly manner.


	6. vi

"Winterfell is yours, Your Highness," the deep but pleasant voice of Eddard Stark says by way of greeting to his King and good-brother. Queen Lyanna steps out of the wheelhouse, followed by all her children, except for the eldest of them who is still at his father's left.

Willas Tyrell remembers the boy Jon Targaryen had been all those years ago. He also remembers the twins for the babes they were. Now he sees a new face, yet it does not surprise him for the only daughter of King Rhaegar is well-known for having her father's heart and thus pulling his strings whichever way it suits her. In that she apparently resembles her she-wolf mother. And not only there are they to bear a resemblance.

Before he knows it the King and Queen have moved down the line and they stand before him. Willas bows as is becoming and thinks upon looking at Lady Lyanna that she has changed little over the years. "My King, My Queen."

"Young Willas," Lyanna greets him dispensing of formalities. Ironically enough she is but a few years his senior. She smiles and her husband nods to him. "It is good to see you." In this moment Willas does not find it hard to understand how a woman may turn a man's world around. "How fares your family?"

"They are good, my Queen. My sister longs to be presented at court soon." The words pale to the excitement little Margaery exhibits. Of course, the little girl has stopped being little some time ago, along the time she started begging their parents to be brought to court, claiming that she would like nothing better than to serve as one of the Queen's ladies-in-waiting. Their father is eager to go along for reasons of his own, and they have much to do with the Queen's sons.

"And I should like to meet her once more," the Queen replies. She gives no outward sign that she holds any suspicions towards the intentions of his house. Willas supposes that this should ease his burden but all it does it make him apprehensive. "I shall see you again tonight, I trust."

Hardly can he breathe until another female, one as dangerous as the previous, finds her way to his side. Willas nearly draws back at the sight of Sansa. Her deep blue eyes speak of adoration, the admiration of a young woman-child, still too innocent to know how dangerous it is to leave her heart unguarded. Catching himself, Willas conjures a smile for her. "Sansa, may I be of assistance?"

Her eyes widen. "I thought you might take me to see the wolf and her litter. Did you know we were planning to gift Jon with one?"

If ever there was a woman to use awkward lines so sweetly, then Sansa Stark outshines her by far. Willas knows he ought to refuse, he knows that he ought not to feed her fondness for him, nor give her further reason to look at him as if he were the answer to her prayers. Alas, he cannot refuse her. "Very well, but we cannot be long, fair lady. Our absence will be noticed and then both of us shall be in trouble."

Sansa nods solemnly and places her hand on his arm gingerly. It's a position often taken by Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn. Resigning himself to it, Willas leads Sansa away, into the quarters where the mother-wolf has been placed, her pups along with her.

The fearsome creatures lies sleeping. Yet weak from birth and loss of blood the she-wolf stirs not an inch. Her children run amok, small yipps and fumbling legs and Sansa melts at his side. She lets go of his arm and picks up a pup, elegant and gray with shining golden eyes. Watching the girl nuzzle the little direwolf, Willas is once again reminded that she's but a child herself. A child, indeed, but not for long. She already looks ready to shed her image for another one. Why the thought should scare him. Willas does not know. Perhaps because if she were of a proper age he would be forced to see her as a woman.

"Do you think Jon will like our gift?" she asks excitedly. The look she gives him is hopeful, innocent, quite enough to make his stomach churn.

"I'm sure he'll find it pleasing." Although he does not know which way the Prince's tastes run, Willas is quite certain no one could refuse a present if it came from the likes of Sansa. Even if said present is potentially dangerous. Placing the pup back onto the ground, Sansa approaches the mother. Willas tenses as Lord Eddard's daughter leans in. "Have a care, Sansa. Don't disturb her or she might lash at you." Wild beasts cannot be trusted.

"Oh, don't worry, my Lord, she sleeps. I doubt she would wake even if I touched her." Obedient enough to know when not to test the limits, Sansa comes back at his side, avoiding the balls of fur that run around once more. "They are in good condition. We should head back." Offering her his hand, Willas thanks the Seven that she is too young and much too proper to do anything but stare demurely at the ground as they walk back.

But luck, fickle fiend, throws in their path one person Willas has not been expecting to see until later. Queen Lyanna rises an eyebrow at the sight of them. She smiles, that sort of smile women put on when they know a secret. Willas frowns. "Your Highness." It almost sounds like a question, falling from his lips.

No reply is given for the Queen merely shakes her head gently and murmurs to herself. Then she passes them, her hand landing but a moment of Sansa's shoulder in what Willas is sure is some sort of female means of communication. After that she is gone, taking to the road that will see her to the stables.

"I must go," Sansa says quite suddenly. "Mother is sure to be looking for me. I forgot." She does not explain further, but Willas allows her to break away and make her escape.

It is for the best, the says to himself when he catches the seed of remorse threatening to lodge itself in his chest. As from this moment he must do his very best to secure a position in the good graces of the King and Queen. Should he fail, his father will likely be more than displeased. Willas breathes heavily. All these ambitions of his family's could drive a man mad.

This is not the time for pity though, so Willas hold his head up high and marches on. Dimly he thinks that not even battle is quite as scary. "Seven help me," he mutters to himself in hopes that the Gods will.


	7. vii

Jon holds back his laughter at the awe in Aeron's face. Arya – who they say looks like his mother – rolls her eyes. There is a certain resemblance, sure enough, but they are different. Perhaps it is for the fact that his mother's claws come down in a well-defined arch, whereas Arya is still clumsy, though determined. Back to Aeron though, his brother prefers the softer ladies, those he may protect, so Jon is not surprised at the boy's reaction. "Our mother wields a sword, brother," he reminds the young one dutifully. "Does it bother you also. It was father that trained her awhile."

"Our mother had no need for those skills," Aeron replies, brows furrowing. "We are at peace."

A tenuous thing, Jon thinks. Peace and war are always divided by a very thin line – almost too thin. Today's friends may turn enemies tomorrow. "For all the good it does. But you cannot rely on that."

"I needn't worry for it." Young Aeron shouts for Arya to spar a round with him. "You will be King, brother. Not I." And the truth should not taste quite so bitter upon one's tongue. Such must be their fate.

Opting to keep silent, Jon leans against a post. He needs some time to think. Mayhap Aeron is fortunate in his apparent disenchantment with the throne and the position of king. The burden is enough to break one's back. Doubts eat alive even the soundest of minds in the face of grand decisions. Such a decision is the one he makes upon seeing his little sister walking with Sansa Stark.

When the time comes, he will meet Rhaenys of House Dayne. Not because he believes she may be of the same blood with him, but to prove to himself that she isn't – she can't be, for all the whispers he's heard. Father wouldn't send a child of his away; this Jon knows for certain. He would do no different.

"I can see the thoughts jumping about in your head." Robb clamps down a hand upon his cousin's shoulder. "You will harm yourself and what good will you be then?"

Laughing, Jon gives his attention to him. "No good, I suppose. Tell me, have you invited the whole of the realm? Or may be begin soon. At the rate we're moving, I'll be twenty by the time the feast begins."

"Eager to have all those young ladies clamouring for your attention, are you?" Robb teases good-naturedly. "Women are more trouble than they're worth, my Prince. There is no sense in hurrying the fate." It is quick enough on its own, with little help from boys like them.

Maidens. How could Jon possibly forget? There is no pressure yet, but his mother has been hinting at it of late, and the King listens closely to the Queen and her advice. "I do believe they will be too caught up in you to bother me too much."

After all, Jon has that wild charm of the North, but Robb owns the refined splendour of the South. Which is not to say that the Prince envies his cousin. He has little need of it; women always seem attracted to the promise of a golden crown to glitter atop their head.

"What say you, cousin? The Prince is more to the taste of fair maidens than the Lord. Have you not learned that?" That is the way in which Robb understands to lighten the mood, and at the same time express exactly what he thinks of the women at court. "I do not know how your mother stands having them around." The exasperation is clear in his mannerism.

"They call it an acquired taste," Jon whispers as if imparting some sort of secret. "And some of them are quite lovely." He sighs. "But I look at them, all smiles and gentle coos, and I feel nothing but a vague admiration for a finely arched brow or a pair of mesmerising eyes."

"That has to do not with them, but with the fact that your eyes do not look where they should." And it is Robb's turn to smile mysteriously – well-versed in things that are foreign to the Prince. "Brows and eyes and lips are fine indeed. But look instead at slender fingers. Look at tiny waists or dainty shoulders."

It all sounds strange and oddly exciting. The songs speak of eyes and brows and lips made for sweet words. Soft skin, uncovered shoulders and elegant fingers are left to the imagination. To actively seek out these, Jon pushes back his confusion. Again, Robb has always knows these sort of things before him.

"And when you find a lady that appeals to you, ask her for a walk," Robb instructs with the same grin on his face. It is almost like they are children again, ready to create some sort of mischief.

"Robb, it's cold. The poor girl will freeze." What could his cousin be thinking?

"That is exactly the point." And so, Jon soaks up the information Robb so gladly gives. "I know a girl. She can teach you a few things. We only need to be discreet." It sounds dangerous and exhilarating.

Uncertain, the Prince glances around. "You think it wise?" How many eyes watch them? Who listens?

"You'll have time enough for wise when you're an old man, my Prince." His cousin's tone is slightly mocking, and perhaps that is what startles Jon into agreeing.

"The Kingsguard will not be easy to avoid." But they will manage – or so says Robb. Seeing as he's already practically agreed, Jon offers no more protests. It would be futile either way.

"It's your nameday, after all." And with that all talks of learning are over for Arya comes their way, with Aeron in tow. The youngest of Eddard's daughters grins, a mark of triumph as sure as the sun rises from the east and sets in the west. "I see her skill has unmanned you, brother."

"Not so," Aeron disagrees. "But unlike some, I do not hit girls. What sort of man would I be?" The words are rewarded with a bark of laughter from Robb.

"Don't try to take my glory," Arya hisses, somewhat miffed. "I won because I was better than you."

"You won because I allowed it," Aeron tells her, his voice cool and cutting. Unlike Jon, he does not fear offending others, and it shows in his daring, bold replies. There is something decidedly more dragon about the middle son, just as Jon is more wolf. Arya is not amused and she too is a daring little thing. With a practice sword in her hand, no less. A dangerous little thing, one might say. So Jon enjoys the show, and does not worry about anything for a little while. When it comes time he will surely be drowned in troubles.


	8. viii

Arya likes Uncle Brandon best. She does not know exactly why this is so. Whether it is a genuine admiration for her father's brother or for the fact that mother always seems to avoid the man, Arya cannot tell. But where her mother isn't, there may Arya be as unladylike as she wants. Which is always a good thing as far as she is concerned. That, and the fact that her uncle sometimes allows her a drink of his silver flask.

Mother and Sansa will take one look at the pair and shake their heads. But while her sister will let her be – most likely abandoning her for the company of the Tyrell heir – mother is completely different in her response to her antics. Never has she caused a scene. Her voice is calm, almost sweet, but there is something harsh about it. It is as if every word towards her uncle is a curse of sorts. Like mother always disapproves of him. Which she certainly does of her youngest daughter. At least there is a person who understand her. So Arya continues to cling to her uncle whenever he comes to visit – which is not often enough as she would like.

Right now she is in the stables, getting mud on her brand new skirts. Arya looked at the horses longingly. Lady Stark has forbidden all of her children, except Robb and Sansa, if supervised, to ride. It's unfair. It's stupid!

"Now, what is a lady doing in the stables?" a deep voice asks. There is amusement laced in the words, and a bit of mockery. Arya knows exactly who is speaking. She looks up and grins.

"Uncle Brandon!" Arya yells, jumping from her current position. She lurches towards the man, running as fast as her legs carry her. "You're here. You're here!" Jumping up and down she throws her arms around his waist.

"If only half my family was this happy to see me," he murmured with pretended affectation. "Pet, you mustn't jump on me quite so, else both of us will tumble to the ground."

"I fell and broke the skin on my knee," she proclaims, letting him go to show the wound. Arya lifts the skirt up. "See? It looks worse than it really is." The scab is still fresh.

"Fell on your knees, did you?" Brandon questioned. "One these days you'll fall on your back. Aye?" There is a wolfish grin on his face as he ruffles her hair affectionately. "Little wolf, have a care. But what is this I hear of your sister mooning over some boy?"

"Did she tell you?" Sansa can't keep her mouth shut long enough to breathe. Arya is not surprised in the least.  
Brandon shakes his head. "Nay. 'Twas my sister who told me. Said she saw them together."

"Sansa is stupid." The reaction is a habit. "If she likes him she should tell him and get it over with. This is stupid." Much of what her sister does Arya finds senseless. Especially the songs. How can she be so naïve as to believe that life is a song? Even Arya knows that that's not true.

"That she is," Bradon agrees with a laugh. "Since we've no more to speak of where your sister is concerned, tell me how goes your sword training."

"Mother does not like it." Then again mother does not like most of the things Arya does. "I'm getting better. I even managed to outdo Aeron."

"Your mother never held any love for steel, as I remember it." He lens down. "But you, Arya Stark, have the wolf in your blood. Did you know that in the old days our women were taught how to wield swords?" At the shake of her head he smiles indulgently. "You should have Nan tell you."

"Tell her what?" Catelyn asks loudly over the sound of nickering horses. "Arya, what did I tell you!" she exclaims finally seeing the mess her daughter has made of her dress. "Can you not keep from ruining your dresses until after supper?"

"Let the child be, good-sister. She is just having some fun." Bradon's interference is met with a stony glare from the mother. "Now, now, Cat, there is no need to look at me like that."

"Like what, my lord?" Her voice is equally cold, all the fight draining out of her. "Arya, go to your room and have your dress changed. We will speak of this later." She waits until her child is a safe distance away. "As for you, I hope you have the decency to keep your distance."

"It's been years, Cat. Can you not let it go?" Brandon steps closer to her. Catelyn takes two steps back. He sighs deeply. "Gods, woman! You know how to hold a grudge."

"You show no remorse. You gave me no apology. You made a fool out of me." For a moment she tears her eyes away from him. "I hated you. I cursed your name. Had I never married Ned, I would hate you still. But I've met a man, after knowing only boys, and I realised that it's not worth it." Catelyn steps closer to him finally. "Boys are not worth it."

"Are you telling me I am a boy?" He looks offended. It must hurt his pride that she no longer worships the very ground he walks on.

Laughing, Catelyn seems to realise how Brandon's mind works. "I hold no grudge for something that means nothing to me." There is a moment of silence between them, am exchange of stares. She would tell him that he stopped existing to her that summer all those years ago. But it would be useless. Brandon lives to please himself. That is no secret, and by now Catelyn has learned not to take it to heart. "Speak to me when other are present if you must. But if you ever come between me and any of my children, the gates of Winterfell will be closed to you."

"Bold words," he says. "But you forget that while my father yet lives you can do nothing but obey his word."

"The Lord of Winterfell will close those gates personally," Catelyn tells him acidly. "You think that I have so little standing in my own home? You father knows what sort of man you are. And he will treat you accordingly. I say no more, my lord."

With that she turns around and leaves him there, hoping that the conversation will remain between those walls. There is no point in digging up the past. It's long gone. Yet her words speak truth. Family. Duty. Honour. Brandon is not family to her – heart – but he is duty – to her mind, at least. And the honour of her House must be upheld, even if she does not enjoy the man's company.


	9. ix

In the midst of their celebration comes the raven with the foreboding news.

Sansa is sitting with her aunt, sister and cousin, attentively listening to the woman recount a jester's act at court. If only father would allow her to go to King's Landing. Instead she must wait for her aunt to visit. Of course she is happy with Queen Lyanna. Her aunt is a delightful person, but she wishes for more. Surreptitiously she looks at Princess Alysanna who is smiling softly. She is so lucky, Sansa thinks, admiring the simple, elegant dress and the neatly braided hair. Wouldn't Willas like her better if she looked more like a Southron lady? She does think he would.

"Sansa, dear," Lyanna calls her quite suddenly. "I have brought you and Arya a few trinkets from King's Landing. I was not sure of your preference but I dare say you shall divide everything between the two of you admirably well." Her smile is full of promises. Or so Sansa tells herself.

"You needn't have," Eddard's oldest daughter replies, while Arya rolls her eyes and hides a sigh at the sharp look Sansa throws her.

"Bring them in," the Queen speaks to one of her maids. She seems as excited as Sansa. "Don't frown so, Arya. I promise I have picked something you will like."

The maids bring in bolts of material in vivid colours and of excellent quality. Sansa gasps, thinking of all the magnificent dresses she could have. Thus she forgets to be suspicious. More pressing problems are upon her in this moment. If only she found a seamstress good enough up here that is. Another maid trails after them. But she holds something entirely different. This time Sansa makes a small sound of discomfort as Arya gives a sharp yell of joy.

It is a sword. A thin, relatively long and silver sword with an elegant handle. "I thought this would be more to your taste, little Arys," Lyanna comments with a laugh."Truth be told, it was Jon's idea. Having gone unnoticed until then, a smaller scabbard is still in the maid's hands. Lyanna signals for the object to be given to Sansa. "And this is for you." With more decoration than Arya's sword and much smaller, Sansa's dagger is a thing of beauty.

The gift pleases her despite the fact that her knowledge of weaponry is limited. "They are lovely, but I'm afraid mother would not approve," she dares, fingering the engraved surface, marvelling at the intricate model.

"Is that your only protest?" Lyanna seems surprised and her daughter titters softly.

"I have told you that she would like it, mother; did I not?" Alysanna asks. "I am certain Lady Catelyn can be persuaded, cousin."

Sansa smiles at Alysanna. With her Targaryen colouring and sweet disposition, nobody would have guessed her love for such unladylike exploits as sword fighting and horse riding. She can certainly see why Bran flushes every morning when they break their fast.

"Perhaps," Sansa finally agrees. She wants to say more but the door opens and a frightened looking squire comes in.

"Your Highness," he bows, "my ladies." He draws a deep breath. "The King wishes to see Your Highness," he addresses his Queen. The poor boy is so nervous the words come out with a shudder.

"Does he?" Lyanna asks. But the question is not meant to be answered. She rises to her feet and pats her daughter's hair affectionately. Smiling at her nieces she tries not to show herself worried. "Enjoy your day. It seems I am needed elsewhere."

Together with the boy, Lyanna descends the stairs that lead to the inner court. She does not question their destination. It is common knowledge that men love training better than they do drinking tea and eating lemon cakes. There is something not quite fine in the atmosphere. It has been a long time since anything like this.

"Your Highness," the men greet her with bows. Lyanna nods her head back at them but instead of speaking she makes her way to Rhaegar's side. Her husband has retreated to a corner. He holds a letter in steady hands, but the taut line of his mouth is enough to make Lyanna understand the news is not good. To anyone else he might look simply serious, but to Lyanna he looks sad.

Placing her hand on his arm, Lyanna leans in at an appropriate distance. "You have send for me, my King?"

Rhaegar turns to look at her, and his eyes burn her. "Take a walk with me," he says, folding the letter.

The godswood is silent; it always is. Lyanna holds onto Rhaegar's arm, patiently waiting for him to speak. Whatever the letter contains, it cannot be good judging by his reaction. But he does not say anything more. Instead he hands her the paper. The seal of House Dayne is not unknown to Lyanna. She unfolds the paper and reads.

"Lady Dayne is dead?" It is more the shock that makes her ask than the thought that Arthur could be lying to them. "Poor Elia. She was sick. Why did they not say anything?"

"Read further," Rhaegar tells her.

Doing his bidding Lyanna can only gasp at what she finds. "You do not think this is true, do you? Surely they would not-" But they would, Lyanna realises. The chance is not to be wasted.

"I had not anticipated this," he confesses.

"You have renounced your claim," Lyanna comments.

"Rumours are dangerous," her husband reminds her. "If Dorne stands behind the girl's claim to the throne…" He needn't continue. "We do not need another war."

It is not advisable. It is not good. Lyanna does know. Wars cost money and lives. They are a horror. "I think we should wait. We do not know if Dorne will push for anything." She thinks for a few moments on that. "Or we could eliminate the threat."

"How do you propose we do that?" It is not the first time he asks her for her judgement. Rhaegar regards her patiently.

"We need Dorne on our side. They wish for some king of acknowledgement, do they not?" At his nods, Lyanna smiles. "Then they shall have it. It is past time for Viserys to take a wife. He is acting lord of Dragonstone, a Prince in his own right. That should appease Dorne."

"The question is, who do we ask for? Rhaenys Dayne or Arianne Martell?" That depends on the true aim of those spreading the rumours.

"Even if Rhaenys was your natural daughter, she would still have to contend with four legitimate children. Arianne Martell would be the better choice." Why ever does she still feel bothered by those long past events? Lyanna looks away from her husband.

"Indeed. I will speak to my brother." And just like that the heaviness lifts. Rhaegar holds her hand.


	10. x

"It's a wonder your father permitted your absence, my lady," Willas comments softly as Tyta leans towards him with a smile upon her lips, the aftermath of his earlier joke. "Roslin's presence I do understand better." Walder Frey is not at all fond of leaving the fourth of his daughters to her own device.

"I am to keep watch over my sister, my lord. She is young and impressionable." Tyta bats her eyelashes innocently at him, and they both laugh. "Besides that, I thought I might finally persuade you to ask me to a dance."

This easy friendship is not a new development. Willas remembers meeting Tyta when they were both children. Lord Frey's daughter is perhaps the one person of that brood with which he had had the pleasure of having a decent conversation. He is somewhat surprised to find that she is not yet some lordling's lady. Perhaps he should offer for her.

As soon as the thought comes, it is dismissed.

"I have heard that your father has plans to find you a suitable lord." His words seem to shock her, and those warm brown eyes glint for just a moment. "Don't look quite so distressed, my lady. People might think I have offended you."

Of all of Walder Frey's children she is the most devout. Yet her father does not permit her to retreat form the active life of Westeros to solitude and prayer. He had her betrothed to Brynden Tully once. Never mind that the man could have easily been her father. Fortunately the Blackfish would have none of it. Since then Tyta is most often called the Maid.

"Aye, but you know my position on this topic, Willas." If her tone is less than happy, her voice is low enough and her face pleasant enough for it not to be noticed.

The strains of a well known reel ring through the keep. Willas draws to his feet and extends a hand towards her. "Make haste, my lady. I fear our days of frolic and making merry will be soon past us."

Tyta does as he bids, and they take a turn around the floor. She is a good partner, yet not possessing the best skills. But he has taken her here to continue their conversation.

"Will you be going to Dorne soon?" It is common knowledge that the King and Queen will remove to Dorne , Lord Stark too. Most of the important houses, to be sure.

It is a game, Willas knows. Both he and Tyta have spent more than half their lives observing this precarious balance between the powers of Westeros. Words travel fast. "You are worried." His observation is met with a bland smile. "You needn't be. Doran Martell is not unwise."

"Doran Martell does not worry me," she replies shortly. She is not a player in this game, and perhaps for that reason her view is clearer. Willas knows that she does worry. "I worry for my friend."

Squeezing her hand, he allows himself a boyish smile. But her smile turns into a frown. He makes to look behind, wondering what has altered her disposition. Tyta shakes her head gently. "It seems our closeness has been wrongly interpreted." At that he looks anyway. Tully blue orbs stare at him, hurt reflecting in those twin pools. "Perhaps you should ask her for a dance."

"She is a child, Tyta," he says, turning back to her. His grip becomes firmer. Sansa Stark would do better to find a young man her own age to fawn over.

"You have waited until now. That excuse will not hold." Tyta raises her eyebrow at him as if her words have a hidden meaning. "Come, Willas. Do not hurt a maiden's tender feelings," she jokes, breaking from his grasp. "I am sure Rosling must be wanting me by now."

Willas is about to point out that her sister is dancing with Jon Targaryen and isn't likely to look well on her intruding, but Tyta is stubborn in her own way. He knows that she will not come back. Alas, she is taken by Jaime Lannister for the next dance. Well then, there is nothing for it but to gather his courage.

Not even on the field of battle during Robert's rebellion has he been this unsettled. Truth be told he was too young at that time to fully realise the danger. It took a field full of dead bodies to show him there is nothing glorious about war. Since then he has made the acquaintance of apprehension. Why he should feel so at the mere task of inviting a girl to dance is of yet unexplained. How daunting.

Sansa will not refuse. Of that he is certain. And for this he feels guilty. But it is just a dance. Surely she cannot have anything to suffer from it. In a few years she will find a man worthy of her, and she will forget these fancies of hers.

Walking towards her, he almost stops at the hopeful look in her eyes. Rickard Stark gives him a benevolent look, but his concentration is on the conversation he is having with Queen Lyanna. Willas wastes no time.

"My lady, may I have this dance?" he asks, his face a mask of joviality.

The girl breathes in, wonder clear in her features. But Sansa is quick to gather herself. She climbs to her feet and nods at him. Willas cannot help but admire her delicate frame. A tall girl, she will most likely take after her mother and become a tall woman. Most of Lord Eddard's children take after their Tully mother.

Her hand is smooth, her fingers slender. Sansa is elegant and poised. So very much like Margaery. Yet so very different at the same time. If she were more like his sister, Willas does not doubt he would find it easier to stay in her company. Margaery does not look at any man with such adoration as Sansa. Aye, she talks sweet when it is needed, she gives encouragement when she should and she flirts better than any of her brother, but Margaery's heart is nowhere in it.

With Sansa it is another thing altogether. For her a few smiles and a kiss in a darkened hallway won't be enough. She isn't offering Willas a mere flirtation. She would give him her heart if he would let her. And may the gods forgive him, if he could he would do the same.

His mind reminds him that she is a child. But to his heart it does not seem to matter. Hasn't Tyta said this excuse won't hold much longer?

So Willas allows himself a few moments of not thinking, of just being. He can enjoy a beautiful smile. He will enjoy this dance.

And Sansa laughs as he spins her around.


	11. xi

The sept is bathed in smoke. The heady scent of incense has spread through every corner in an attempt to cover the smell of death, of rotting flesh and human misery. Rhaenys keeps her eyes to the floor. She can't quite bear to look at her mother's corpse. To think that the woman was once – not too long ago – alive; to think that this is what becomes of them all eventually, Rhaenys shudders although the warmth of the place shouldn't allow for it. Dorne is always warm, covered in heated sand. Yet for all that Rhaenys feels awfully cold inside.

She never got to ask her mother for the truth. She hates the fact that her courage deserted her. Standing at her side in those last few hours, she might've demanded to know the truth, but she hadn't. Rhaenys turns her gaze to her brother. Aegon's face is flushed and tired, his eyes red-rimmed from all the crying. He is still weeping quietly, his throat too raw to produce any sounds for the moment.

The man she calls father stands in front of them, a little distance away from his children. Arthur Dayne is bent over his departed wife's shell. It almost seems like he's waiting for her to wake up. As if he expects it all to be a bad dream from which he will wake any time now.

He wrote to the King. Rhaenys doesn't know what to think of it. Of course it is not the first time when he does this. The head of House Dayne keeps a flowing correspondence with the Crown. He used to be a Kingsguard after all. And they say the King had always considered him a friend. Perhaps Arthur Dayne thinks himself entitled to care for the King's bastard daughter. That explains it all.

A high-pitched sob erupts from Aegon. The boy has found his voice. Rhaenys leaves her place and takes her brother in her arms. Taller than him, she is also more powerful. The girl embraces the little child, muffling his cries in the folds of her pale dress. She would have thought that by now even Aegon would have lost this urge to cry. Rhaenys can feel tears welling up in her eyes. Sniffing softly she tries her best to keep them at bay. Allowing herself to dwell on it won't help matters any. Besides, Aegon cries enough for the both of them.

At the very least her father will not disappear like uncle Oberyn. Mother's younger brother left as soon as the maester announced there was nothing more to be done for Elia. Perhaps it was his own way of avoiding the truth of the matter. Either way when he comes back, Elia's death will be just as real as his absence from her side. But then again Elia had wanted no one with her. Father had insisted that she allow them to say farewell, but Elia did not wish for her children to witness her passing.

Aegon hadn't understood. He just wanted to climb in bed with his mother and have his hair stroked. That was when he started crying, and he still cries.

"Rhaenys," her father calls, leaving the corpse where it is. "Come. You and Aegon must be tired and hungry by now." They are awake since the crack of dawn.

"I don't want to go," her brother whines, fists clenching in his sister's dress. "I won't leave mother alone!"

But Arthur will have none of that. He picks the boy up, despite his arms flailing. Rhaenys wonders how their father can be so patient. He is tired too. He is hungry too. He is devastated too. Still, Aegon struggles and cries and shouts, and suddenly Rhaenys is glad for father's iron self-control. Had it been her, she is sure Aegon would have been clutching a stinging cheek by now. The baby of the family gets more leeway. It's fascinating the way in which a father and his son bond. Held as he is, Aegon quietens somewhat, opting to muffle his cries in their father's broad shoulder.

Mother would not have allowed him to carry on so. For all her tenderness, Elia had always believed that a spoiled child would grow up rotten. Their father has a different approach. He coddles both his children, holding a tender spot for daughter and son alike. Elia's kisses were only delivered after the candles were blown out. Arthur is more demonstrative in his affection. Even nursing his own grief, he finds it in himself to soothe the children's hurts.

She should contend herself with this, Rhaenys considers, staring longingly after her father – not her father- but she can't. If she's not his, then she needs to know. She needs to know so the guilt will leave her be. Hopefully her anger will fade too. Rhaenys has been angry for a while now. She wants to know that when people call her the daughter of her father, it is because she is a Dayne, not merely because Arthur Dayne took her in.

Doubt. Self-doubt. Deceit. She spies a servants lurking in the shadows. Rhaenys creeps away from her father, with a promise to return soon. Arthur nods at her absent-mindedly, still comforting the son. Rhaenys stops in front of the man, eyes narrowing into slits. "Have I not said that I do not wish to see you again? Begone!" she hisses menacingly.

"M'lady." The man bows respectfully. "I am sorry to have caused you distress upon out last meeting. My apologies."

"Distress?" she repeats dumbfounded. "Distress, you say? If you do not make yourself scarce I shall have my father throw you out on you ear, impertinent wretch. How dare you appear before me?"

"You have the same air of command as you true father. The same stance too. A voice and a disposition very alike to his own." His offer is met with a cold look of disdain. "Think on it, m'lady." His gaze remains fixed on her, something in those dark eyes slithering past her carefully erected walls.

Wrenching her eyes away from him, Rhaenys trots away. Wretched man! He thinks to confuse her. Had she really been another man's daughter, her mother would have told her before dying, wouldn't she? Elia hadn't said a thing.

Nay, the girl thinks. Nay, Arthur Dayne must be her father, else he would not treat her as he does. Arthur Dayne is her father. He is., he is, he is. Rhaenys repeats the words in her head, almost like a mantra. Hurrying her steps, she breaks into a run, lifting her skirts to gain speed.

Arthur she finds seated at the table. Throwing her arms around her father's neck, she lets out a sob. "I love you, papa!"

Gently caressing her wild mane of curls, he smiles in her hair. "And I love you."


	12. xii

Jon leads his horse into a trot, the wolf pup he has picked for himself safely in a soft skin punch. He still marvels at the size of that ball of furs. The pup is strangely quiet, its brothers and sisters were more vocal. But this one does not let out so much as a peep. His mother had held the pup to her chest when Jon came within her room. She cooed softly and said that Jon had been much the same as a babe. Jon calls him Ghost.

He is not the only one to receive a wolf for a gift. His mother too had taken to the she-wolf, the mother of the litter, so it happens that a cage containing the large beast travels along with them.

Father is not exactly pleased with the development. He sometimes stares uncertainly at the direwolf. In fact Jon remembers that only a few days ago his parents had another argument about it. Mother insists that the she-wolf will do nothing, while father fears it may escape its cage and slaughter an innocent.

Yet Jon does not think that will happen. The she-wolf is still sluggish and besides she is well fed in mother's care. True enough she doesn't take well to people coming too close to her, but she does no more than growl softly. It is a mystery why she winded up half-dead in the snow. However it is clear that she is domesticated. People do not bother her, and that may be stranger still. Who would take the time to make a house pet out of a dangerous animal of the North?

Out of all his brothers, it is Rhaegon that seems to like the wolf as much as he does. Jon has seen his brother speaking even to the she-wolf in a soft voice and throwing her strips of cooked meat. Lyanna encourages her sons, truth be told. Aeron is more fond of his sword at this point, but he does not shy away from ruffling Ghost's fur. Alysanna shies away from the she-wolf, but she does adore the pup, and often feeds him milk sweetened with honey despite Jon's protests.

The oldest of the King's children suspects that even his father will warm up the two new additions. There is some danger lurking about though. As Jon well remembers, Rhaegar fear just what ideas his children might get from this. "And what shall you tell them when they'll wish for poisonous snakes as pets, my dear?" he asked his Queen as they supped. Alysanna had shrieked, claiming that she wanted no snakes anywhere near her. Aeron then teased her about the Dornish snakes she would no doubt see soon, and all semblance of gravity was lost.

From behind him Jon hears Robb calling. The Prince slows his horse, waiting for his cousin to catch up. Robb's pup is the biggest of the litter, already rounder and stronger than the others. Why exactly Jon has chosen the smallest of them all, he cannot tell. But something about Ghost called out to him as soon as his eyes stared into twin pools of blood red. Grey Wind is a healthy pup, and will grow up strong, but Jon would not trade Ghost for anything.

"How is Ghost holding up?" Robb asks, his hand going inside his own leather pouch to scratch Grey Wind behind the ears. The pup makes a few sounds of what Jon presumes to be appreciation.

"He's quick to adapt," Jon says by way of response. His own hand searches for the warm ball of fur, and Jon is not surprised to find the wolf asleep, curled into himself. "I am more worried for the she-wolf."

Robb looks back when he mentions the mother of the litter. She is in her cage, head on her paws, eyes closed. Whether she sleeps or not is hard to tell. Robb nods at Jon after a moment. "Sansa insisted that the master see to her wounds. Father was more than prepared to put her out of her misery."

The though sends a shiver down Jon's spine. "I'm glad he did not." His reply wins him an approving smile from the redheaded heir of Winterfell. "Mother seems quite taken with her."

"It's because of her Stark blood." Robb motions to Jon then. "You too. Now we only have to find some dragons for the rest of your family and we can all be glad for our pets."

They both laugh at the absurdity. "When you come to King's Landing, we can search together around the Red Keep. I'm sure we can find something," Jon suggests with an impish grin.

"Or we can let Arya do the searching." At the startled look Jon gives him, Robb burst into deep, rich laughter. "If there is anything remotely dangerous, you can be sure Arya will find it faster than we can draw our swords out."

"I've no doubt." His youngest female cousin is always getting in some sort of trouble, that cannot be denied. However does Lady Catelyn cope with it, Jon cannot fathom. His own sister is more like Sansa, although she does at times enjoy unladylike pursuits like archery.

But unlike little Arya, Jon gets the distinct impression that Alysanna is content in her role of lady and the knowledge that from time to time is may shoot arrows and shame Aeron who is a poor shot unless he concentrates very hard on his task. Of course any such friendly sibling rivalry is conducted under the watchful eyes of their parents. As if one of them might shoot himself in the foot.

"I think Arya will like King's Landing then. There is much trouble to be had, or so Aeron insists." Jon smiles at the image that rises in his mind. May the gods help them all if Arya and Aeron ever get it in their heads to unite. There would be not stopping them. It must be some sort of blessing that most of the time they cannot spend more than a few minutes acting civil with one another.

"If we survive Dorne, " Robb reminds him. "I just wish the circumstances of our visit had been different."

"So do I." A funeral is not exactly what he had hoped for when it came to his first trip to Dorne. But Jon supposes there is nothing for it.

If he were inclined towards contemplation Jon thinks that the abruptness of death would surprise him. Yesterday they were celebrating his nameday and now they are headed towards the burial of a woman universally mourned. It seems that no one can do more than speak of the tragedy that has befallen House Dayne.

But the young rarely think of death if they are not faced with it. To Jon it does seem like immortality is at hand.


End file.
